The Ultimate Equalizer
by littlemisslol
Summary: In which one Jackson Overland, recently deceased, is basically chucked into a waiting room with Death themself while the moon sorts out his affairs. It begins terrifying, then it gets awkward. And then they play Go Fish.
1. Chapter 1

RISE? GUARDIANS… THING WHA? OH GOD I'M SO GOMEN

THE ULTAMITE EQUALIZER

Jackson Overland is sinking. He's slowly drifting closer and closer to the bottom of the lake and though he tries to swim the thrashing of his limbs is slowed and muted, in a sense, by the cold that seems to stab into his skin like a blade. His vision, dulled and slowly growing black, is gazing helplessly at the hole in the ice that seems to be miles away.

He's running out of air, he realizes, as his lungs burn and the somehow fiery lash of cold that punctures his skin with ease. His legs kick uselessly; arms flail and reach in the blind hope of a child that someone will save him.

But no one ever does.

His body grows still, eyes drift shut in the appearance of sleep. The water fills his lungs and the cold infuses with his innermost organs, both working to shut down his organs one by one. And they do, methodically. Lungs, heart, brain. All are eventually wiped out with a casual compression of water or the biting crawl of ice.

Jackson Overland has sunk.

But if he were still conscious, still coherent, he would have seen the skeletal hands reaching for him from beneath a flowing black cloak through the inky black of the water, would have felt their strangely dry touch on his face, would have heard the sigh that rang with the rattling of bones.

But he does hear what comes afterwards, clear as day despite the water that should have muted it.

"Oh, child." It says, and though the face is covered the clink of bone on bone that follows each syllable is enough to fill the gaps of what lies beneath.

"You are _much_ too early."

And then he shuts down, fully and completely, only to wake up a second later. But when he does, in truth, he wishes he never had as he slams with a harsh smack onto marble floors. He's soaking wet, he knows, and his clothes hang off him in their drenched state. He gasps, taking air in greedily, and pushes himself into a sitting position, looking around the room, mildly wondering if he was hallucinating.

It is a room of stone and metal, perfectly cut and carved, as though meant to last eons. Marble, quartz, silver and gold, they all litter the room, which is so massive that he cannot truthfully see any of the walls, or the ceiling for that matter, as all edges seem to just go on until infinity.

It's dark, not to mention gloomy, with its massive pillars of rock and alloys, as well as the light smell of dust and age, almost akin to that of an ancient library he has once visited. It's also cold, not the damp freezing of the lake, but a much more bitter, if not biting cold. The most prominent thing, however, is that it's almost empty. Excluding the spires and pillars, the room has no furniture, no inhabitants save for himself. He looks around, a show of worry across his face as he tries to gather his wits.

Was he in hell? Had one of his tricks been enough to damn his soul to eternal pain and suffering? The idea scared him more than he'd like to admit, despite the inner voice of logic saying that it was much too cold and desolate to be the fiery inferno in his mind. He turns his back, trying to see some sort of exit, some sort of escape.

But when he turns back he's not quite alone anymore.

Where there once was air, a dark oak desk sits, tall and impressive, with a small chair in front. Behind it, however, is another chair, currently occupied.

"Jackson Overland?" The question is asked by the figure behind the desk, and he can hear the clattering of _something he is really hoping isn't bones_ as it talks, but he nods to the question anyways, not trusting his voice.

The figure –for there is no way that is a person, he realises as a hand of bone waves at the empty chair in front of the desk- nods its head back, and with a voice as old as the moon itself says, "Sit. We have much to discuss."

And he does sit, in a daze, as he stares at the cloaked figure that had brought him, one he has only seen in nightmares and in children's tales.

Death.

"Now." The voice calls from under its hood of shadows. "Do you wish to explain why exactly I was told to fetch you? As I said before you are much too early."

He sits in stunned silence, too petrified to speak as fingers of bone drum along the tabletop. Death, for who else could it be, looks _bored_ for lack of a better term, as they lean their head on the hand not filling the silence of the room with the constant tapping of bone on oak.

"Not a talker, then?" They continue, flicking through a stack of papers on the desk before selecting one and drawing it from the pile with practiced ease. Jack shakes his head, once again not even trying to speak, knowing his voice would crack.

"Well. _This_," They wave the paper, only slightly larger than a sticky note, in his face. "_This_, says that you're not supposed to be dead yet. Nope. Not for another… four thousand years, yeah, give or take some change." They nod to themselves after checking the paper.

"And yet, here you are." The methodical drumming stops as they lean closer to him, as if expecting an answer. Jack looks deep into the shadows of the cloak and, upon seeing nothing but inky black, opens his mouth and begins to talk.

"The. The ice. It was too thin. Emma…" His eyes begin to fill with tears, and he furiously wipes at them until he feels right to continue. "Emma was in trouble. I saved her. But the ice broke-"

"And then you sunk." The hood nods, before tenting their skeletal hands and propping them under what must be a chin. "But- ugh." They sigh that bone rattle sigh that Jack is slowly starting to grow accustomed to and shake their head. "I swear to god Manny's out to kill me."

"Who-"

"Doesn't matter."

Jack quickly pipes down, bowing his head, still shivering. Death stops rooting through their desk and looks at him, if the cocking of their head is anything to go off of.

"I'm not going to eat you, kid. But really then, Jackson Overland, since that idiot rock has asked us to wait, I will ask you one question." Death says with a huff, looking skyward into the never ending ceiling.

"Do you play chess? I'm afraid this world is frightfully boring, and games do make the time go faster."

The child merely shakes his head, stating that his father had tried to teach him with little success.

"A pity. I forget, have they invented poker in your time yet? Or am I getting mixed up again?"

"If it has been I've never heard of it."

"Damn. When you come back perhaps I shall teach you, it's quite fun. Very well, what do you suggest?"

Jack honestly has no idea, but he's always been fond of card games and if he was going to play against Death itself he was going to pick one he was good at.

"What about Go Fish?"

"So _then_," Jack says through a mouthful of taffy that had sometime materialized during one of their many games, "Andrew Burgess gets the great idea to push Emma in the mud!"

"Oh my god, he _didn't_!" Comes the scandalized reply. "That little _bugger_! Got any fives?"

"Go fish. And yeah, then I punched him and he ran home to his mum, and I ran home to my mum before his mum could show up and then I had to hide on the roof before they both could skin me. Got any twos?"

"You must be able to read thoughts boy," Death sighs, handing the slightly worn card over. "This is at least the fourth time you've beaten me."

"Fifth." Comes the casual reply, as they had indeed been playing for quite a long time, and Jack had very quickly warmed up to Death, finding them a rather fun person to be around despite the... deadness.

The skeleton made to say something, only to be interrupted by a loud squawk and a rather scary looking bird perching on their shoulder, digging its black claws into their shoulder. If Death felt any pain at this, he made no show of it, simple patting the bird lightly and asking, "Yes, Hades? What have you been up to my pet?"

The bird shrieked again before taking off, flinging itself into the darkness. An awkward silence followed.

"Obnoxious, that one. But." Death stands, and motions for Jack to do the same. "It's time for you to head on back, kid."

"Back where?"

"To the mortal world, dull as it is. You've got a lot more ahead of you, if this is any indication." The paper from before is waved in his face, this time more playful than judgemental. "But seriously, it is time for you to get on with your next chapter."

There's a distant rumbling in the distance, and the ground begins to shake. Random objects go flying from the desk, clattering to the floor. Death simply pats the boy's shoulder, nodding softly.

"Just a tip," They say quietly, "Hold your breath."

Before Jack can ask why, the roar reaches a crescendo, and Jack is frozen in fear as a massive wave of water rushes into view. He only has time to heed his new friend's advice before he's sucked under, the force of the hit forcing him into slamming his eyes closed.

When he opens them he is at the bottom of a lake, his name is Jack Frost, and he can't remember a single thing.

Four thousand and some change years pass. Jack Frost becomes a guardian, gains a family, and relives his memories. So when the time finally comes that his era reaches an end, he is not afraid. As the children stop believing and he fades away, it's with a sad smile.

When he lands, this time with more grace, on a marble floor, he begins to look for a dark oak desk.

And when he hears the words, "I do believe I promised to teach you poker?" Come from behind him, his grin is as bright as the moon.


	2. (WHOOPS WAIT ONE MORE)

**HEY WAIT NO I WASN'T DONE YET MY BAD**

Death is a master of waiting. In the beginning of their time walking the plains of the Earth's surface there was not much for them to do, as the population then was small and easily managed. Though the concept of time is as foreign to them as anything could be, they do try to keep to it for the sake of their filing system. Said system may have just composed of a stack of papers haphazardly towering on a desk, _but you didn't hear that_.

It is because of their adherence to the progress of time, that Death actually finds time for themself, to do with as they please. This may or may not be a good thing, as in all honesty they don't really have any hobbies or friends. Not that they much care for either, but the lack of options still irritates them as they sit and wait.

But the passage of hours, months, days, and years does not matter to them. Because Death is infinite, and they have all the time in the world.

So they wait and they wander, exploring the world as it grows and morphs around their unchanging self. They walk the Plains of Abraham and sail with the fated space expedition _Challenger_. They stand upon the mud of No Man's Land, a dark silhouette against the yellow of mustard gas, all as the world keeps spinning on and on and on and on.

They are everywhere and nowhere, constantly a presence but hardly noticed as they wander the streets of Pompeii and slink along the alleyways of Hiroshima. Along the way they pick up an affinity for chess, which ironically becomes one of the human's favourite things to say about them.

"He likes games," The mortals say, hushed whispering on the edges of consciousness, "He likes a challenge."

In all honesty, Death has no clue whether they're a he, she, or an it, but in all honesty they don't care much. They do appreciate a challenge, true, but it is not as if winning will gain the souls anything as Death is simply the messenger, not the cause, and has no say in the final result.

They meander along the times, eventually taking to hopping along the timeline to random points in their spare time. They view the signing of the Decoration of Independence, passively watch master Poe scribble down his Ravens, and the first spark of Edison's light flicker into existence, all in the span of what the mortals would call two hours.

They are unseen in all of their excursions, no matter the age of passerby, as Death is as old as the Moon, and had been reaping Manny's creation's ancestors before Manny had even really gotten himself any power. Death is not a guardian, in any sense of the word, they're more of a currier if anything.

They do their work, hopping from world to world, a Sheppard with a scythe in place of a crook. They gather the souls and ferry them to their final homes, passive but understanding. Some resist their fates, running and trying to hide, but Death is a patient hunter with more time to wait than there are grains of sand on a beach.

And the world keeps spinning.

The Skeletal Sheppard works at their pace, diligently for countless eons. They gather and sort and place and challenge, and on three or four occasions they send someone back out into the world for another shot at life.

Death passes through billions of faces, lives, and people a day, but he always remembers the ones he sends back.

Jackson Overland Frost would be one of them.

But even within this select group, the child is special.

When Jackson gets the amazing idea to die and force Death from his schedule, the original feeling coursing through their skull is annoyance. If at the Man in the Moon or the child, they don't know, but the feeling _is _there.

Death is expecting the same routine they have run through with every soul that sits in what they like to call the Waiting Room, the standard fear and horror and the verbal onslaught of _why am I here what did I do_ etc, etc. But Jackson does not deliver on the standard, and instead takes his own route.

And, ironically enough, as they sit and play the silly little card game and gossip like old women, Death feels so very _alive_ as tiny Jackson Overland shows not a bit of fear in their presence. It's a strange and invigorating feeling, and they're honestly saddened at it's end, as the child is sucked back into the mortal realm through water and cold.

And Death knows that Jack Frost has been born.

They casually pick up the boy's paper, barely larger than a sticky note, and read through it. Three hundred years solitude, ouch, that's going to hurt, they muse. Save the world from total darkness, quite nice, save Death the workload, good on him. The paper will only grow as time goes on, as it only contains the set information as of that time, currently of which there was very little. As more and more options are taken, paths chosen, and choices made, the file will grow and morph. But that is for time and time alone to work on.

They take to wandering again, watching the Library of Alexandria burn, the Romans crash and implode, calmly regarding as kings are crowned and dethroned, leaders elected and murdered, it's all in a day's work.

Death does not see Jack Frost again until the fifteenth of April, 1912, at around midnight.

It's a pity, really, the Titanic was such a lovely little ship, good and hardy.

Unfortunate placing, as well, as they do so _hate_ getting wet. Does a horrible number on cloaks, not to mention the water usually knocking one or five ribs around without their consent isn't exactly fun.

But hey, it's a living.

They only begin to gather the souls, which is a slow process as each person takes their damn time drowning because it's not like _we're on a schedule here people_ _good god_, when Death hears an anguished screaming coming from nearby.

Screaming is not an unusual thing to hear in his presence, and in truth Death has just grown used to hearing so much that it fades to background static, much like an unpleasant smell that lingers despite any and all efforts to try to eradicate it.

But this scream is special, because they have heard that voice before.

Jackson Overland-Frost, they recall, striding towards their fellow immortal and scooping up wayward souls on the way. It had been quite a while since their paths had crossed, but Death knows that Jack will not remember their meeting, as the Moon had wiped his memories to keep the child from going mad.

Ah, well, introductions are always fun to those who don't get to make many.

The child in question is watching the ship sink from the safety of a nearby iceberg, face contorted in horror. Death silently walks up next to him, long cloak dragging in the snow behind them, and stabs their scythe down into the ice with a _thwack_ to announce their presence.

"Well." They say calmly, "_Somebody_ has given me quite a bit of work for the next few days." It's nonchalant, like discussing the weather because to Death it really was at this point. The screams of the dying carry over the air, accompanied by the splashing of those already in the water and the sinking boat.

Jack looks up into the inky black where Death's face should be, tears in his eyes and frozen on his face, and he says with a quivering voice, "I was just playing, this wasn't supposed to happen!"

The Sheppard simply nods, pausing to crouch and pluck a rather small soul, probably that of a child, from the water, before finally saying that, "Well, it's not exactly me you should be apologizing to, but hey whatever floats your boa- oh wait, bad analogy."

The last bit is crude and too soon, but the appalled look on the kid's face is way too good to pass up. Death can't laugh, because laughing is not exactly good for the ol' ribcage, and it usually knocks their jaw out of place if they do it for too long.

But it's totally worth it.

Death honestly wants to help Jack, they do, but they also know that Manny would be angry if they did. In retrospect maybe that should be another reason to do it, but this part of the kid's timeline is set and can't be changed.

Time may be nothing more than a concept to Death, but to everyone else it was solid and tangible, which was annoying but what can you do?

Jack remains silent, watching the boat crumble and the water suck people down into the inky black, one by one. Death idly wonders if this may trigger his memories, but when the kid just stares at the water vacantly that theory goes out the window.

"_Well_, not that this hasn't been fun, but I've got a job, boring as it is, that needs doing." Death says calmly, jostling their scythe from the ice with a harsh tug, before turning around and heading back towards the water to finish their work.

"Wait!" Jack calls after them, "Who are you?"

The question hurts, but they don't blame the child for a fortune the moon wrote for him, so they simply turn around and say, "You already know." Before continuing their work. After a stunned silence the wind flares, and Jack Frost has left.

The souls of 1514 are collected that night. Not the most they've collected in one go, but certainly a substantial amount.

And the world keeps spinning on and on and on and on.

The two of them meet once or twice more, but in truth Death keeps half an eye on the kid from afar, just _because_. They have nothing better to do, it's sad but true. They keep him from hurting too many people, subtly nudge him towards the best choice for him, and if Death slightly alters the boy's fate to give him as good an afterlife as possible, what of it? Kid damn deserved it.

And if Pitch Black never preys on the kid before the Guardians got involved due to fear of getting on their bad side, then what of it?

They retake to wandering. Watch as bombs are invented and set off. Regards society's crumble. Their wanderings take a backseat, however, once a war breaks out that has a death toll in the _billions_ because _crap that's a lot of work_.

Death watches as Jack rises to amazing heights, becomes a Guardian, and regains his memories, but doesn't contact the child. Death is a backseat player, and Frost would come to them eventually so why not wait?

After all, they have all the time in the world, even as the world keeps spinning on and on and on, and Death is a master of waiting.

**A/N: WHOOPS DID I SAY ONESHOT I MEANT TWOSHOT SHHHHH. But really, I forgot to add this to the last chapter, but thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed! To those who reviewed, you are amazing and I love each and every one of you! *casually slinks back to her corner* **


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